


Lost in the Abyss Between Yes and No

by lysanatt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, but Kingsley still can't sleep at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peace and Cool Water

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of loosely connected stand-alone ficlets meant to create a nice romance. Thanks to Red Day Dawning for beta. The chapters are rated from G-R

There are times when Kingsley regrets. Not very often, but it happens.

Mostly it happens during those cold and lonely nights when he wakes up, sweat-drenched and half-way choking on his nightmare, entangled in blankets and in the impressions he usually suppresses so well: Moody's one eye, all there is left of him. Tonks's sweet face, a calm mask in death. Remus' gaunt, pale visage, expressionless, finally free of the curse that cursed his life, too. War has stamped its image into Kingsley's mind, and no matter what he tries, short of erasing it, it never fades. War is a scar on his mind, and using magic to make it disappear feels disrespectful to those who lost their lives for the world that Kingsley now rules.

Sometimes he regrets. He regrets that he was not amongst them, those who cannot remember any more; those who now rest in peace, somewhere, in another world, perhaps. Survivor's guilt, they call it, and Kingsley can manage, or so he tells himself. Just like everyone else who was there, fighting, staying alive. He can manage. Aurors always do. Although he does no longer carry the badge, his experience is a wall, a stronghold, protecting his inner core. He's a hermit crab, carrying his shield with him.

In a rustle of damp sheets and remaining dreams he waves his wand in the dark, cleaning the bed and the air of the nightly disturbance. Tomorrow, he swears, he will go to the apothecary and purchase something, anything, any potion that will give him a long night's undisturbed, peaceful sleep. He needs it.

Just like no one else, he has a world to rule, people to take care of. This cannot go on.

 

The next morning, Minister Shacklebolt is the second customer to enter the apothecary in Diagon Alley. The first is someone he knows.

'Professor Longbottom. I didn't think I'd find you here.' It is the middle of the term. An unexpected encounter, this time of year. Kingsley smiles at the sight of the newest Hogwarts professor, but the smile fades as he sees the strained expression, the lines marring the young face, the exhaustion.

Neville looks up, and the pain in his eyes is the same that Kingsley suspects might be find in his: the agony of losses and survival, hidden under a layer of practicality and everyday chores.

'Minister.' Neville manages a weak smile.

Kingsley does not have to ask. Instinctively, he knows what is wrong with Neville Longbottom, even before the shop assistant pulls down a jar with a small paper label on it. _Draught of Peace_. He does ask anyway, having seen the tired, long-lasting pain in Neville's eyes. 'Winter makes it hard to sleep,' Kingsley says, careful not to tread too close, both in person and in his sudden curiosity. 'It seems I am here for the same reason.' He nods in the general direction of the shop assistant and the jar.

'Oh. Oh.' Neville nods. There is a pause before he looks up again, his eyes strangely young and honest. 'Nightmares. I can't... It's difficult to face them alone.'

'Me neither.'

'But you're so-'

'-human.' Kingsley have had that reaction before. As if his calmness, his size, his ability to fight and stand his ground remove the ability of having feelings. Yes, he was once a warrior, but not one without emotional depth, or without regret. Kingsley, in turn, wonders what it is Neville sees in his dreams. His dead comrades? Voldemort on the peak of his power, the moment before his fall? The disgusting reptile that Neville so bravely battled? Or perhaps, like Kingsley, the world for which they now are responsible? Their world, once more in flames, more people dead; peace shattered? He tilts his head, looking searchingly at the young man in front of him. 'You, alone? I thought you had-'

'No longer,' Neville interrupts abruptly, uncharacteristically hard. 'She couldn't take them either, my dreams. Got tired, too, I suppose. Of me.'

Surprised by the sudden sharpness in Neville's voice, Kingsley flinches. So much hidden anger. He wonders briefly if he is doing the same too often, this feeble hiding of little, gnawing hurt-mice which suddenly expose themselves, outside control; squeaking, wanting out in the open. 'I am sorry, Professor. I didn't intend to pry.'

' _Neville_ , please.' Neville's mouth forms an apologising smile that almost reaches his eyes. 'And I didn't mean to snap. You're the Minister and all... It's just that I haven't slept for three nights. Minerva told me to take a week off and get some rest.' This time the smile makes his eyes light up, for a second removing the traces of his nightly battles. 'As if it makes it better to know that the sixth year Gryffindors are handling my precious plants for an entire week. That doesn't exactly support any kind of peaceful rest.'

Neville's smile feels like cool water on Kingsley's troubled mind. Perhaps Neville's abilities for taking care of plants extend themselves to people as well? 'Neville, then,' Kingsley says and smiles, too; before Neville turns around, taking the small vial the shop keeper hands him. Staring at Neville Longbottom's well-defined back and shoulders, Kingsley feels as if Neville is precisely like that: cool and soothing but, like water, slipping through his fingers.

Kingsley cannot sleep at night, and the images that keep him awake are unpleasant and disturbing, but he is no coward, no one would ever accuse him of that. Anyway, he takes a deep breath, as if the outcome of the moment matters. Acting upon this odd feeling; this sudden thirst for a soothing coolness he didn't know of until a minute ago, he holds up a hand, wanting to make the world stop. ' _Neville_ ,' he says, not certain how his sudden suggestion will be received, 'would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

Kingsley thinks that he could get used to seeing Neville Longbottom's wonderful, soothing smile.


	2. Lost in the Abyss Between Yes and No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost by accident Kingsley has asked Professor Longbottom out. However, the shy, young professor is a bit quicker than Kingsley might have counted on. And more direct.

Perhaps this is not the best idea Kingsley ever had, he realises as he stands outside the Muggle restaurant. The restaurant's windows cast little squares of soft light upon the dark, frozen street. A door opens somewhere, and the crisp winter air mingles with the scent of stew and roast and spices. The sound of laughter reaches him, fading, disappearing, as the door closes again. It is as if the cold night suddenly makes it possible for him to think; makes it possible to see through the exhaustion and the weeks with far too little sleep, clouding his mind.

Somehow he sees the accidental meeting with Neville Longbottom in a clearer light.

Somehow he thought, just for a moment, that Neville Longbottom was...

No.

Kingsley shakes his head slowly. He doesn't know whether it is because he finds himself to be an old fool, or because he wants to deny the entire situation. Inviting Neville out ( _Neville_ , not Professor Longbottom) is perhaps the most rushed, unthinkable, unreasonable thing Kingsley has done for ages, not that he keeps himself back from doing rushed, unthinkable, unreasonable things - he became an Auror, a rebel, a Minister of Magic, didn't he?

But somehow, just for a moment, he thought that, perhaps...

No!

But then the small restaurant's golden lights flicker again, reminding Kingsley of Neville's smile: bright and refreshing and soothing at the same time, and _no_ becomes _perhaps_ and _perhaps_ \- just perhaps - he will get through this evening without doing something even more abundantly foolish than becoming Minister.

Like admitting that Neville's smile is more than just soothing and cooling and warm and wonderful.

Caught in the abyss between yes and no, Kingsley is just standing there, lost in decision, when Neville arrives. And his smile is exactly as attractive as Kingsley thought it would be. Strange how impressions can change: it seems as only yesterday that Neville was a chubby, lionhearted boy, whirled into a relentless, cruel war by his own quiet, strange bravery. Now he's a _man_ , Kingsley realises. The boy is long gone.

'Good evening, Minister.' Neville's hand that clasps Kingsley's is strong and hard, callused and dry, warm and _safe_.

'Not here,' Kingsley says, and reciprocates, touch for touch, smile for smile. 'Here, I'm just Kingsley.'

The food is delicious, and Kingsley relaxes for the first time in ... longer than he cares to remember. Neville is surprisingly easy to talk to. Somehow this odd Brotherhood of Sleepless Warriors and the secrecy of the Muggle restaurant let Kingsley forget about long, cold nights and about being Minister, about pressure and pain. His appetite, however, hasn't suffered, and he helps himself to a second helping of roast and gravy and battered potatoes.

'No wonder you got so big,' Neville says, the trace of a cheeky grin flashing as he pushes his plate away with a satisfied groan. 'Good lord, I'm full!' There is a bit of Yorkshire pudding left on the plate.

Kingsley eyes Neville's muscular arms appreciatively. He hesitates for a moment. 'You didn't turn out too bad yourself,' he says, tryingly, not certain how the compliment will be received. However, it is true: Neville Longbottom did develop nicely, although he is still short, compared to Kingsley's impressive height. Herbology is not just science, it is hard work - and it shows.

'Thanks... I...' An expression of slight confusion rests for a moment in Neville's eyes, before his mouth forms a perfect "O". Then it seems as if the sun has suddenly decided to rise in the dark evening: a smile, honest and happy, blooms like a perfect rose on Neville's lips. 'Thanks,' he repeats softly, making Kingsley let out a breath he wasn't aware that he'd been holding on to.

A little later, Kingsley orders pudding: a rich pear crumble that makes his mouth water. Neville is turning a glass of port between his fingers, watching Kingsley eat. He sips, clearly enjoying the sweetness.

'Are you sure you don't want any?' Kingsley asks. 'It is really delicious.' The custard is soft and smooth and fat, and the pears sweet. 'At least taste it.'

'There is only one spoon,' Neville says. He looks at the long spoon in Kingsley's hand. 'But it looks good.'

'Do you mind?' Kingsley raises the spoon. Somehow the idea of breathing is becoming increasingly foreign.

Neville blushes. 'I- no. I suppose not.'

Kingsley digs into the pear crumble and holds the spoon up, full; the custard topping the golden pears, not letting Neville take it himself.

Neville Longbottom has indeed become a man. Kingsley watches as Neville, his eyes locked with Kingsley's, takes the titbit from Kingsley's hand, almost suggestively swallowing; a pink tip of a tongue showing before he lets the spoon slip away. Kingsley is no Legilimens, but he knows, just knows, that they both think the same: that in the future, perhaps, the nights might become lighter and sleep easier.

They sit there, two wounded men with only silence and seconds ticking away between them, before Kingsley finally lets out the sigh he's been keeping in. 'Oh.' He looks away, then back at Neville, wondering what has changed. 

Kingsley is enchanted, it is as simple as that. Attracted, enchanted, curious.

He smiles; white, perfect teeth, as he takes another spoonful, licking the custard off it, deliberately slow.

Neville laughs. 'Kingsley, really!'

Kingsley laughs too, the dark, deep voice making one or two other patrons turn and look at the handsome man. 'Bit too obvious, was it?'

Laughter still bubbles in Neville's eyes. 'Can't see how you got that idea,' he grins. 'And if you want to share spoons with me in the future you can just say so.'

'Yeah,' Kingsley says, suddenly serious. 'That'd be nice.' Kingsley quickly decides that it certainly wasn't without reason that Longbottom was sorted into Gryffindor. Not that he ever was in doubt.

Kingsley pays for their dinner, and outside, in the dark, both men wrapped in heavy winter coats, Kingsley looks at Neville, again letting the silence wash over them. He knows this is the way to disaster. Neville is too young, they are too hurt, Kingsley is Minister, Neville a respected Herbology professor, recently divorced. Disaster indeed.

But despite the looming disasters and the many _I shouldn't do this_ -es, somehow, in the course of a few hours, _perhaps_ fleetingly passed _maybe_ and turned into _probably_ , finally settling on _definitely_.

'I want to see you again,' Kingsley says, not caring about rejection or another _perhaps_. He knows what he wants now, and he is not going to beat around the bush with it. 'Before you get back to Hogwarts.'

Neville's smile is the only answer Kingsley has been looking for.


End file.
